Olive Drab
by falcon1701
Summary: Set after the episode The Bus; why didn't Hawkeye tell his comrades about his first love? For a good reason, as it turns out, one that Beej finds out first hand. Hawkeye must come to terms with his feelings, and his past . . . Hawk/Beej. Reviews are love, thank you.
1. Chapter 1

"First time love conquered all," he'd said, a smile spreading across his face so bright it could have lighten up half the eastern seaboard. The bus was cramped, dirty, caked with mud or blood, neither would have surprised me. Around us, everything was still and dark. The bus had heaved its last breathe in this very spot and even though I can repair a severed aorta I can't fix a car worth a damn. And Frank was getting on my nerves. He was always on my nerves, he could take up permanent residence there right next to the horrors of war—the illustrious Frank Burns. And Beej defended him. I can't believe it but it just might be that he's such a nice guy he's even giving old Ferret Face a chance.

Potter had told his story of love conquering all. With all the wars Potter'd seen it was a wonder he was able to find the real thing when he did, then marry her. Call me crazy but it gave me hope, after all he'd been through he could still feel love. And he was a real army man. Unlike the pretend army I was in. Not for the first time I knew I couldn't have done what he'd done. I would have made an even more of a lousy solider back then; my hair looks terrible under a helmet.

We were all supposed to tell these stories, to pass the time, to have fun, to keep our mind off certain doom. And Beej, that big knight in shining khaki armour had proved chivalrous and called Frank over. He was sitting next to him. If I wasn't so busy feeling sick to my stomach I might have made a few more comments about Frank's story but was too tired and too hungry to waste the energy. And Beej was watching me. Not _watching_ watching, just looking at me when he wasn't looking somewhere else. For some reason when I looked at him I didn't want to say the nasty things so much.

When it was my turn everyone directed their attention to me. I didn't even consider answering. I couldn't tell a story because there really wasn't one to tell. Not one that I'd tell in present company anyway. I'd avoided the question, a deflection I've become very good at by now, always a step ahead. Too many questions was a bad thing in this case.

I was just happy to make it off the bus alive. We went to the mess tent. Food. Glorious food. And no Frank. He'd gone to see Hot Lips. It didn't matter, as long as he was away from me. We sat down. BJ's arm was touching mine. I could have sighed out loud. After the nightmare of a trip we'd been on this dream was seeming a lot better already. Even the food looked good. It was hard to believe, especially for me, but at that moment, if only for a second, I was actually content in Korea. It's a strong word, I know, and those kinds of words usually clash terribly with what I'm wearing—usually because whatever I'm wearing is covered in blood, but it fit for right now. Content as in mildly happy, slightly at ease, somewhat comfortable, at the bare minimum it was not being one step away from jumping off a cliff. It was just me, Beej, and whatever we were eating.

Physical contact is an amazing thing. When you get to the very basics we are all mammals. Warm blooded, largely driven by instinct, oft covered in fur and existential struggle but mammals nonetheless. We need it. Need to be touched. I felt grounded when Beej touched me. Everything felt more real.

And then he ruined it all.

"You never answered my question," he said, taking a bite of food, running the back of his hand over his mouth and glancing once up at me.

"Blue," I said, he raised his eyebrows, "No, red," I took a sip of coffee, "Any colour but olive drab's my favourite colour,"

"Seriously Hawk, I mean about love,"

"Please, not while I'm eating,"

"Even Frank spilled the beans, you've gotta answer,"

 _Make something up, think think think, my mind races._

"Nothing could compare to Frank's story," I say with a simpering smile.

"Who was she?" he asked grinning, turning enough where he sat so his arm moved away from mine. It felt cold without it, "Residency? Med school? If there's too many just pick one lucky girl.

I do my best to ignore the walls closing in on me, maybe I'll suffocate before I get crushed. I take a bite of food, "I didn't date around too much," I said, not looking at him, "Flirting is one thing, dating—love, is another,"

He waited, I looked over at him, away from the slop on my tray suddenly no longer appetizing. I didn't let my eyes linger long. If I was at all smart I would've gotten up right then. I was back "home" now, no more than a hop and a skip away from the Swamp, the whole night ahead of me, just me, the still and our hangover we'd have together in the morning. But instead I was an idiot and stayed put. I looked at him. He looked so perfect, a wonderful human being, all warmth and compassion, waiting for me to talk, waiting for me to spill my guts about my first love. How could you lie to that face and still feel alright?

"It was med school," I said finally, gritting my teeth and lowering my eyes, "I . . . knew this person for a year or so, we were in a lot of the same classes but . . . we'd never really gotten together, officially,"

"How come?"

"That's the thing about love, it works even when it's just one person,"

"So what happened?"

"I decided that I had to first talk with the person or it wouldn't work at all, so I . . . was their lab partner second year," a smile spread across my face, "It was a big deal, I'd asked them, out loud and everything. I was so nervous I think I screwed up every lab we had together . . . this one time," I laugh, rubbing a hand over the stubble on my cheek, "We were dissecting a pig's heart. It was the grossest thing I'd seen at that point but I was trying to act so tough, to impress my partner. The damn thing starts beating out of nowhere! I jumped right into their arms, scared out of my wits, made worse of course when I realized I'd just offered to tango without their permission,"

"And you weren't anything more than lab partners?"

"Wasn't that romantic enough for you?" I ask, my fingers lacing together. He smiles, the son of a bitch actually cared. It wasn't an act. He was a good person. It would have been easier if he just didn't care. For BJ it probably hurt him not to do whatever he could. "Well I finally asked them out, on a date, and uh . . . well it—didn't go well,"

"Shot you down?"

"Yeah . . . we were lab partners, sometimes more than that, but togetherness wasn't really an option,"

"What was her name?" Beej asks, leaning forward on his elbows with a sympathetic half-smile. I ran a hand through my hair, rubbing the back of my neck. The name? God, what was I doing? I wasn't thinking! That bastard, with his cute grin, he'd make Macarthur spill all his deep dark secrets. I had to get outta here. I started to get up.

"Hawk . . ." he grabs my elbow when I stand. I roll my eyes up to canvas ceiling. Where was the escape when every tent looked exactly alike, all within five feet of each other, and only three miles from the front?

"Beej I'm tired! It's been a day from hell, let's just get to bed," Lifting one leg over the bench I'm stopped again when his hand tightens on the sleeve of my uniform.

"Well she had a name didn't she?" he laughed, he thought he was being cute. Which of course he was.

"No, _she_ didn't," I lift my other leg, jerking my arm out of his grasp.

"She didn't have a name?"

"Why do you care?" I demanded, "You're married, the only romance that should interest you now is your own of the 'to have and to hold' persuasion,"

"It wasn't an unfair question," he said calmly. Always so damn calm. "But now what you're not answering; makes me curious why not,"

"Curiosity is an admirable trait for a doctor but a lousy trait for a friend,"

"Hawk what's the matter? You act like it's a big secret,"

I stop, just stop, it's in my character to keep talking even after my brain's told me to shut up. Meanwhile I tried to ignore the overwhelming feeling that I was in the cross hairs. I didn't know what to say to him. Or not to say to him. Another lie? Every lie added up, again and again, lies hurt, they hurt you—they turn everything rotten and putrid inside you till you don't know what's what. I shrug my hands into my pockets as I take a deep breath, just to keep them from shaking.

I didn't know what I wanted. I wanted to be honest with BJ. I wanted to tell the truth. But I didn't want things to change; they were good where they were. Most of all I didn't want him to hate me. Is that so bad? Too much to ask? I wanted to tell the truth but couldn't, and I wanted to lie but I couldn't do that either.

The fact that I was actually considering telling him this, something I didn't talk about to anyone, something I hated almost as much as I hated the war—I think I'll blame entirely on Frank. I dunno how but somehow it was his fault we were on that bus in the first place, it was his fault BJ had to ask that question, and his fault that I was so tired I could barely stay standing. If I wasn't so tired I wouldn't have said another word.

"First of all, it is a secret," I say in barely audible voice. I can feel him watching me. "Secondly . . . it wasn't a girl . . . " I closed my eyes, for once my tongue was heavy in my mouth, I could barely get it to move, "His name was Arthur,"

I'd said the words, they'd seemed to echo off the canvas walls. So I hadn't imagined it. I'd really said it. Shock. Let's just say I was glad he was sitting down. His eyes looked like he was falling really fast and I would have been too if I hadn't already hit the bottom.

"Arthur . . . as in a guy," he said slowly, not looking at me, "So you're a, uh—?"

"I didn't think it was a good idea to say anything on the bus,"

"No," he said, dragging his eye from the floor like they were lead weighs, "No it wouldn't . . ." he runs a hand over his mouth, "I didn't know,"

"It's not something you just tell people, or anyone, not unless you like social persecution and, in our case, a dishonourable discharge,"

"I thought you _wanted_ out," he said.

"I do, but I want a life _after_ getting out," I bit at my lip, my heart racing in my chest, "Most people nowadays don't approve of gay people, at all,"

BJ gets up. I hold my ground, eyeing him carefully. It was an ugly thought; that I would have to defend myself against him, that he would become violent, but my brain quickly sent a rush of adrenaline through my whole system.

"Who else knows?" he asked.

"My dad," I nodded, "And one girl I was watching a Clark Gable movie with and made the mistake of saying, 'Wow, I wish he was single',"

BJ didn't laugh, not even a smile. "All the nurses, the constant flirting . . ." he raised both hands in a helpless expression, "What did you do with them? Show them the town then call it a night?" I shrugged, looking down at my boots. "For Christ's sake Hawk!"

"BJ," I implored, "You can't tell anyone,"

"This isn't just gossip, Hawk," he paused, then ran a hand over his hair, making it stand on end as he took an exasperated breath, "I didn't know,"

"I like to keep it to myself, you know, I love the army too much,"

"What's your Dad think?"

"He never really said. His normal silence is hard to distinguish from angry silence. Or disappointed silence in this case, disgusted silence—"

"Alright, I get the picture . . ." he gave me a sidelong look, brow creased in thought, "Have you ever had a . . . a . . . "

"A boyfriend?" I finished, watching him nod, "Uh, besides Arthur, uh . . . yeah, I was close to someone else," I set my face but felt my eyes tear up just a little. Trapper. I kept my eyes away from Beej, "Doesn't matter."

"Hawk," he paused to look up, head turning to the side in a way that allowed me to see the pounding of his heart in his neck. He looked fearful when he met my eyes again, "I'm gonna need some time to . . . think about this," his face broke into an awkward half smile and bless him, he laughed slightly, saying, "From now on I'm gonna have to shower with my clothes on," he got up, maybe I'm imagining that his body is shaking, "Swamp?"

"Swamp,"

I'm always surprised how different places look by night. The camp, or as I almost never refer to it—home, looks ten times worse when the sun isn't shining. Even though I hate the colour I'd much rather see green than black.

BJ doesn't say a word walking next to me. Another thing I've noticed about darkness is it's usually a pretty safe time to look at people. Even staring, like at a member of the same sex, can cause trouble I'd rather not have. So I did it in darkness. BJ has these long legs but still manages to be somewhat graceful. I dunno how he does it, especially when it looks like a stiff wind would blow him over. He was taller than Trapper. Trap was solid, warm, passionate . . . I fit perfectly curled up at his side, nose buried in his neck, legs tangled around his, arm secure over his chest as his ribs rose and fell slowly. Until Frank came in of course. Then Trap would jump away, back to his cot, maybe after a hasty kiss as we fought to keep it all a secret. In the end it didn't mean anything. To him. I was just . . . a body to him. It's taken me time to realize that. Accept that.

I looked up into the sky, the stars distant and dim, the cool night air blowing through my hair.

"Halt! Who goes there?!" Klinger lunged out from behind the folds of a canvas tent.

"Hi, Klinger," I said.

"Nah ah, password, or you're not getting past me, buddy,"

"Klinger, it's us,"

"No exceptions, sir," he said, holding his gun steady in hands gloved in pink satin.

"Alright, alright, Rita Hayworth, right?"

"Wrong,"

"What?" BJ scoffed, "That's the password, it was yesterday anyway,"

"It's been changed, don't look at me, I don't control it," he shrugged his shoulders.

"Hay fever," I offered, snapping my fingers.

"No, that was the week before last weeks," BJ corrected, taking a breath, "Okay, I think I got it—it's coconuts, now come on Klinger, at ease before I pull rank on you,"

"You wouldn't dare," he narrowed his large dark eyes.

"I just might tonight," BJ said, he put a hand on my shoulder, steering me around the Corporal.

"I understand, sir," Klinger said, throwing his fur collar over a shoulder, "You sirs have a good night together,"

BJ abruptly stopped in his tracks, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Klinger rearranged the gun in his arms, chuckling, "It means have a good night,"

"Something funny?" BJ had his arms at his sides, hands tightened into fists.

"N-no," Klinger, looked at me helplessly, I shook my head, "Just being nice, sir, didn't mean nothing, in fact, forget I said it."

"Yeah," BJ looked Klinger up and down, his face a mask of anger.

I touched his arm. I don't think he knew he'd gotten so close to Klinger. Or what he sounded like. When I touched him he jerked away, striding off toward the Swamp without a word or so much as a look.

"What's eating him?" Klinger asked me, the wind blowing a few wisps of feathers that were stuck in his hat over his face.

"We did just come from the mess tent," I said to Klinger, then followed BJ foot prints in the mud to the Swamp. When I got there he's on his cot, unlacing his boots. I looked over to the side and see Frank's not there.

"Where's Frank?"

"Three guesses," he breathed, tugging a boot off, "But you only need one,"

"Right," I said, moving to the still, stepping easily through the clutter on the floor. I took two glasses, cool against my fingertips, glancing once at BJ before pouring the gin. I handed a glass to him. He took it. Downed it in one gulp.

"Well I guess that answers that question," I said, pouring a drink for myself.

"What?" he asked, acting oblivious.

"Nothing," I said, lying back on my bed, the glass settled on my chest. Tears stung my eyes. I ignored them. I took a drink, the gin burning down my throat.

I felt stuck. Stuck in the pervasive, unyielding, rotten kind of way that is all too familiar. Wishing I wasn't the way I was. Girls are great. Beautiful, soft skin, they smell good; and sex feels good, but nothing, I mean nothing compares to the few stolen moments I've had with men, the passion and energy of those encounters surpasses all my attempts to hold a women close to me and tell myself lies. I daydreamed for a few moments and remembered Arthur. My body received the familiar charge, I felt it move through my system, making my hips shift and move, filling me with a desperate sadness at odds with the intense arousal. It seemed so long ago. First boy I'd kissed. I can't remember being so happy and so miserable at the same time.

I realized time's passed. How much I dunno. I moved to sit up.

"Beej?" I asked, the sound echoing in my ears, finding it hard to focus, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of my cot.

"Hum?" he is barely visible in the dark.

"You awake?"

"Yeah,"

"Angry?" I asked, thinking I know the answer.

I got up to put my glass near the still and to stretch my legs and can see his motionless outline in the shadows.

"Angry? No . . . upset, maybe," he is staring up at the canvas ceiling.

I said nothing, not sure how to react.

"I think," he breathed out, in a long exasperated sigh, "I think sometimes that I can _feel_ things from you," I saw him put both hands over his face and his speech is muffled, "The way you look at me, the way you move," his hands dropped heavily to his sides, "How could I have missed this?" he shifted so he is propped up on his elbows, "Is that crazy? Am I imagining it?" he is sitting up, "Or is there something there?" his voice is louder, "Because you fooled everyone, everyone but me somehow, and that's after the fact."

"Classic misdirection," I supplied, "And people don't look for what they don't want to see." He is near enough for me to see the details on his face, he looked concerned, the lines are etched deeper in his face and his eyes have taken on a wide, reflective appearance. The movement of his chest as he breathed is rhythmic and I catch myself breathing to it's steady pace as I said, "Look at Clark Kent, worst possible disguise, a pair of glasses, yet Lois has no idea he's Superman,"

"When did you know?"

"When did I know?"

"That you were . . . gay?"

I stopped and thought about it, moving to slowly sit next to him in the dark, "Puberty happened, hormones happened, and long story short, my body responded more to males than females."

"You make it sound simple."

"Well it is," I said, "Kind of. To my genitals at least." I managed a small laugh, even if he didn't, "My head; that's another story."

He raised his eye brows in surprise and shook his head, "Huh."

"Yeah huh. An often oh."

"You didn't answer me though,"

"Answer what?" my eyes are locked on his and I can't look away.

"Am I imagining it?"

"That I look at you? Yeah, yeh I do, usually when talking to you, with most people."

"You know what I'm asking."

"What do you want me to say, Beej?"

"The truth, for once!"

"Don't make me do this."

"Make you? I didn't ask you to tell me any of this," his voice is almost shaking, "I don't _want_ to know this!"

"You're right." I said. I'm frightened by the intensity in his voice. I moved to get up but his hand grips my arm forcing me back down.

"From the moment, the moment I got here you latched onto me, you wouldn't let me move without you knowing about it."

"I'm sorry, did you suddenly lose all free will?" I retorted, "I never did anything I thought you didn't want, I never forced you into anything, mister!"

He still had my arm in his hand and he pulled me closer, "What do you want from me, Hawk," he almost shook me, "Huh? What do you want?"

I kissed him. He nearly fell backwards off the cot, a hand hitting my chest, fingerings curling into the fabric of my shirt. There is a moment, one terrifying moment when I know with near unwavering certainty that he could and would throw me across the room like a disobedient animal but somehow, somehow, there is a short startled gasp, his muscles tense and time rushed gloriously forward as my tongue pushed past his lips.

I felt him moan loudly as he lost balance on the edge of the bed and caught himself with one of his feet. It hit the ground with a loud thud. This allowed him more leverage to yank me forward by the back of my neck, my eyes are squeezed shut, pain as his fingers dig into my skin. He used his height to rise over me, both hands running through my hair as I melted into the warmth of his desperate, frantic kiss. My arm caught behind me as I collapsed under his weight. I grasp both of his hips in my shaking hands and feel the power there and the warm wetness of his tongue makes my whole body shudder uncontrollably. He wants to push me in to the bed and I'd let him, god I'd let him, just—

He pulled back so suddenly I heard fabric rip. Through the thin folds of his shirt I felt a shaking over his shoulders. I looked down and my erection is clear in the space between us. As is his. I tried to catch my breath, pushed myself up, my legs still tangled under him, "I'm sorry,"

He looked away. He wiped his lips with his hand. The darkness of the Swamp seemed overwhelming, a black blanket covering all light, with the whole camp sleeping around us. I wanted to kiss him again so badly.

"Shut up," he whispered angrily and he hadn't moved.

My whole body is charged in a rush of chemicals, the response to stimulus that keeps away all the shame and guilt, at least for this moment, this one beautiful aching moment before it all breaks.

The bed creaked as he slowly leaned over me. I can't see his eyes, my nostrils flare and I smell the rich electric smell of him all around me. He is breathing heavily, shakily, as he lowered his body onto mine. I felt his erection push against mine as his weight settles down onto me. My head rolled back and I groaned, feeling his teeth meet my neck as his hips shift against mine in a shaky, almost uncertain movement. He kissed me, slid his tongue in my mouth in a rhythm set by his hips that are starting to thrust deeply into mine. My hands are dragging at his shirt, trying to find skin, my cock throbbing, trying to match his pace. His mouth moves again to my neck, below my ear, as I move my hand between us, past the soft skin of his belly, to the front of his pants, stroking the intense, throbbing hardness under the straining fabric.

He stopped kissing me suddenly and for a frozen moment he is looking into my eyes. I continue to stroke him. His eyes closed as I felt his cock jump under my hand, his hips shifting into my touch. When his eyes opened again they are wide, terrified and blue. His breath matched mine and his brow furrowed. I put my other hand to his face, my thumb smoothing the rough stubble for one quiet moment.

"Coconuts! Coconuts! The password is coconut you crazy!"

Footsteps. In one panicked jolt he clumsily jerks backwards and away from me.

Frank.

I rolled off the bed, tumbling to the floor with a gasp of pain, lunging awkwardly for my own cot where I hurriedly throw a blanket over my lap and see Beej doing the same. I push sweaty hair out of my flushed face, rubbing the back of my hand hurriedly over my mouth as the door pushes open.

"Ever heard of a light?" Frank spat, "Degenerates,"

He flicked the lamp on by his bed, BJ isn't looking at me when I look over to him. He has a hand over his mouth, his blanket bunch up over his lap. Frank eyed us both with tiny, suspicious eyes.

"What are you guys up to?" he wondered, "I'm not stupid you two, I know you were doing something . . ."

"Frank—" I tried.

"Ah ha! For once at a loss for words, huh smarty? What about you Hunnicutt, anything to say? If this man hasn't completely corrupted you already that is," he scoffed, shaking his head as he shuffled to the stove, throwing a piece of wood in. He stopped, sniffing the air like a big rodent, "You two are drunk—again! The way you guys drink you might as well be fish! Disgusting,"

"If we'd known you'd be home early we would have saved you a glass," I offered, worriedly looking again at Beej who looked like he wanted to run out the door.

"Ha!" Frank laughed, brushes his hands together, "Like I would ever drink with you. I'm always in ship-shape condition, never _drunk_ ," he straightened his shirt after giving me one last snicker, then went to sit on his bed. It squeaked under his weight as he threw an ankle over his knee, starting to tug at his laces. He stopped, mouth screwed shut, staring at me, "You look guilty, Pierce . . . what did you do?" he looked from side to side, "If you put a pork chop in my pillow again, so help me I'll . . ."

"Who, me?" I pointed at my chest, and feel BJ's saliva evaporating on my neck, "That's a waste of a perfectly good pork chop, Frank, after a few days you can use it as an oven mitt,"

"Oh I'm sure," he said, "You know Pierce, maybe you wouldn't hate this place so much if you didn't find a million things to complain about,"

"What's not to hate?" I moaned, putting a hand to my aching head.

"Is there a pork chop in here or not?" he demanded, throwing his last boot on the floor than standing up, "Am I supposed to believe that you two were actually just sleeping?"

"What were _you_ doing?" I asked.

He glared, "None of your business, Pierce,"

"I'm glad, g'night Frank," I rolled over in bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning. That awful time between sunrise and any sane hour of the day. Somewhere between unconsciousness and mild awareness. Sometimes aided with coffee and a cold shower. Non-exchangeable with the much preferred afternoon hours. Morning would make any sane man crazy. In fact, there's a window of time, about ten minutes directly after being woken up, where I can't hear another voice or see another person and be held accountable for my actions. Luckily it takes me more than that amount of time to get to the mess tent.

I stand in line with the vague impression I'm holding a tray then find BJ sitting at a nearby table. I make it to the bench then slump down, the tray clattering to a halt on the table top. I prop myself up on my elbows. My fork feels cold and cruel in my hands, like a scalpel, the piece of toast on my tray is the colour of dirt . . . maybe it is dirt. Dirt on toast.

"Morning," I said, looking to meet his eyes.

"Hi," he responded, taking a bite of eggs.

The mess tent is busy. The to-ing and fro-ing of shift change has risen a cloud of dust hip high. Boots shuffle across the gravel in routine loops. There is some chatter but otherwise it has, for another day, returned to the automated.

"We gotta talk," I said in a quieter voice, looking around to make sure no one was coming to sit down.

"Yeh," he released a breath, "That's an understatement,"

"It's a start," I said, taking the stiff toast in my hand. I struggled to get the words off my cotton-coated tongue, "Though, I . . . don't know where to start."

"Neither do I," he said softly. I'm scared to look at him. He is playing with some oatmeal on his tray, "I feel sick."

His shoulders are hunched and he is bitting at his lip, eyes studying his food. "Yeah," I muttered, "Beej, I'm sorry," I looked away from him, feeling miserable, "Should have never happened. It was my fault,"

"Don't, Hawk,"

"I'm sorry. It's stupid that that's all I can say, but I am."

"Hawk stop it," he said through gritted teeth.

"I didn't mean to drag you into this, it's sick, and wrong—"

"Stop!" his spoon clatters onto his tray, "Obviously I wasn't fighting you off!"

"Ok," I paused, cautiously watching as Nurse Baker walked past, waving at me as she talked to another nurse, "Ok," I said.

He shook his head, running a hand quickly over his mouth, "Jesus Christ, Hawk, I have no idea, no idea how to handle this," he looked at me, finally, and I could have sighed with relief, "I felt . . . out of control," he picked up his spoon again, "Like I couldn't stop,"

"Wasn't up to you, Beej," I said.

"Doesn't mean it's all on you," he insisted, "You can't," he pressed his lips together, eyes closing briefly, "Make this go away."

"Believe me I know, I have advanced degrees in denial."

He smiled then, the smallest smile that still constituted a smile but it helped. I could breathe. Maybe everything wasn't ruined, a small voice in my head chanced. I smiled in return, "Or I ought to."

He seemed lost in thought, then his eyes wandered down to my lips, and to my neck where there was a darkening bruise, "I haven't felt that," he frowned, searching for the word, "That intensity, not for a long time," he shifted closer to me in a way that made my nostrils flare with the smell of him, his voice a low rumble, "I could have destroyed you."

His eyes didn't leave mine, I felt the air crackle and my heart beat faster as I allowed myself to look from his eyes to his parted lips, to his chest. All the random noises of our environment faded into the energy between us, a dull greyness next to our brilliance. He swallowed, blinking several times, the seconds passing like centuries, and then his eyes lowered and the sounds of the mess tent rushed back into sudden awareness, "I love my wife,"

That made me look away. My eyes fell to my tray for a moment.

"I wouldn't do anything to hurt her," he continued. I looked up, my face still and expressionless, "Wouldn't I be hurting her, did I already hurt her when, when I—?" His eyes are wide, helpless, and his breath quickens as he bites his lower lip, an action that sends another crackle of energy to jolt through me, his tongue wetting his lips as he stared intensely at me, "Even the thoughts I'm having now?"

" _Attention! Attention! All personnel report to their duty stations, incoming casualties expected within the hour. This is a big one folks,"_

It even takes us a moment to respond to the loud speaker. I'm aware it would take a little time to sit up without my arousal being obvious and I wouldn't dare look if he had the same problem, not here. Despite that, we both switch gears, it's almost an art form. All areas of the brain that don't involve cutting into people and picking out the shiny bits are turned off. It's all automatic after a point.

There were several really bad chest cases. Hearts in pretty bad shape. It seemed almost funny. I would have laughed if I didn't feel like crying. Broken hearts. Luckily I was able to handle them all okay. I would be lying if I said I was totally concentrated on the work. Most of me was, most of me that is except this tiny corner of my mind that wouldn't shut up no matter how much I tried.

I'm a great surgeon. I save lives. I do good. I should be proud. But sometimes it's hard to feel that way all the time. I'm stitching an artery together and that tiny part of my brain is giving a whole new meaning to the term inner dialogue. I'm peeling bloody gloves off my hands and my brain reminds me what, who, my hands have touched, who I've kissed, who I love, and it all seems wrong, sickeningly, desperately, helplessly wrong.

I'm aware of the other surgeons, the nurses, all doing the same dance routine. I know what BJ's up to, I know he's dealing with a few hard cases right now too. I glance over at him once, the breath under my mask stale and uncomfortable, then I'm back into the blood and guts. My boots slip in blood that's splattered on the floor. A patient bleeds out so much it's pouring from the stretcher. Margaret yells orders. She's good at that. But I'm glad it's her and not me. That woman is amazing. Frank doesn't even talk much this time around. It's like a constant set of variables, in this case sound variables. While I'm working I've got Potter's rough bark, Margaret's shrill screeching, Frank's high, nasal objections, and BJ's low, even voice somewhere mixed up in it all.

And the wounded keep coming. Its nineteen hours later that it all ends. I'm tugging off my scrubs, throwing them in the laundry, my eyes falling shut. The door bursts open, making me look up. BJ strides in with two long steps, tearing his mask off, throwing it violently into the basket, "I had him! God damn it I almost got him back," He rips at his scrubs, shoving them with distaste in the bins.

"Private Willis?" I asked, remembering the kid.

"If I'd gotten to him five minutes earlier he might have made it!" he covered his face with his hands, they're shaking. "He died right there on the table and all I could do was watch the blood pump out of his heart," he rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, chest heaving with laboured breaths. He closed his eyes and it looked like he wanted to hit something, every muscle tense, but instead he found some way to bat it down. He slumped down onto the bench, head resting against the wall, eyes closed.

I take my shirt off the hook, pulling it over my stiff shoulders, turning the collar right side up, "There wasn't anything you could do, Beej, there wasn't enough of that kid left, you did the best you could," I take a seat next to him, sighing, the weight off my feet was heaven. Felt so good to sit.

"God, it was terrible," he sits forward, elbows on his knees, voice thick with tears, "How do we keep doing this? Now that I'm out of there all I can think about is how I never want to go in there again,"

"Alright we won't," I said, trying very hard to lighten my voice, stretching my arms, then letting them fall limp at my sides, "Let's join the circus, they won't find us there. Just promise you'll let me work with the ponies,"

"I'm not joking,"

"Neither am I," I said, running a hand over my hair, letting the dark strands slip through my fingers, "I've always dreamed of the Big Top," I sigh, "Traveling circuses are like the last bands of gypsies . . . I like that. I could have been a gypsy. Never in one place for too long, taking what you can get, utter freedom."

Beej sat listening. I looked over at him, trying to keep my eyes open, "Beej, you gotta get to bed, come on," I stand up, wavering, holding my arms out a little to keep on my feet, "Come on. Up. You can't sleep here,"

He doesn't respond, just unfolds his long legs, getting up unsteadily. For a second I think he's going to faint, his eyes flutter shut and he slumps to one side, I catch him just as he's struggling to get his feet under himself.

"BJ," I exclaim, holding him up, "You okay?"

"Fine," he mutters, his hands steadying his tall frame against mine, "Just tired I guess," He looks up for a second, one of his hands on my arm, the other at my side. I can feel him shaking.

"Can you stand?" I asked, heart pounding with concern, trying to get him to look at me. At least I could see his pupils, make sure he's alright. His hand tightens on my arm, I feel the one on my side grip the folds of my shirt, he sniffs, licking his lips. But he's still not looking at me. I rub his shoulder, "Beej?"

He looks up, "I'm sorry," he said in barely a whisper.

"What's there to be sorry about?" I respond quietly.

He takes a few ragged breathes, "Just sorry," his eyes shine dully with tears, his fingers dig into my uniform.

"Beej," I said. I wish I could think of comforting words but there just weren't any. We'd all been here. Out of surgery, feeling like he'd just lost our hope along with all the bloodshed in there.

He looks up, a bit more comprehensible, "I'm just tired," his eyes search mine, he was standing close enough that I could hear his breath, feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Understandable," I said, navigating the depths of his eyes. The muscles in his arms are tense. My hands moves to his neck and I massage slightly, feeling the knots underneath his skin. His breath is warm over my lips. I shook my head, closed my eyes, "Beej," I said in a low voice.

"Hawk, I don't care," he growled, closing his eyes in frustration, hands moving to grasp my shirt in a way that threw me off balance as he pulled me closer to him.

 _Neither do I_ , I thought. _No_. Forced myself to say, "Actually you do," I said aloud, trying to ignore how fast my heart's beating. Aggressive BJ was a sexy BJ. Very sexy, "I hate to pull rank Captain but as Chief Surgeon I'm giving you an indirect order," I take a shaky breath, "Come on, Beej, you need sleep—let's just go back to the Swamp,"

His hold loosened. The door from the OR opened and Margaret walked through, breathing heavily as she pulls her apron off, hair damp with sweat. She saw us and slowed, "Captains," she regarded us through one narrowed eye as she tossed the apron, shaking her hair out, "Fall apart in your quarters," she said coolly, "We don't need to see it,"

Beej straightened, not saying a word to her, striding out the door quickly.

I stood for a moment. Two moments. Three. Margaret cleared her throat.

"Good work in there today, Pierce," she said, turning on the faucet to wash her hands in her usual fast, thorough way, "I thought it would never stop,"

"My timer says I'm good for another ten hours," I said, taking the first deep breath in a while, shrugging with a reflexive smile at her, "I'm indispensable as long as someone remembers to wind me up at night,"

She shook her head, scowling, "Maybe one day you'll realize you aren't as incredible as you think you are, Captain," she finished drying her hands, "You're only as human as the rest of us,"

She left a lot like BJ had—moving fast as I just stood still. I detached my feet from the floor, my boots full of cement. I left post-op, heading for the one place I never thought I'd go.

"Hawkeye," the Father said, turning in his chair, a finger marking his place in the book he was reading, "What are you doing here?"

Well that's nice. No 'good to see you' or 'what a pleasant surprise'. Good to know he thinks so highly of me.

"Is this a bad time, Father?" I asked, standing just in the door.

"No, of course not," he smiled, "Forgive me, I'm just not used to anyone stopping by," he stands up, brushing a hand through his light blonde hair, "There was a fellow that came in a few nights ago but it turned out he only took a wrong turn . . . he was looking for nurse Aaron's tent . . ."

I met his eyes for an instant. They were hopeful. He just wanted to do _something_ for someone. He was a priest, aside from talking to people and helping out in the O.R., his skills were primarily clerical. He was supposed to hear confessions and help people. He helped them. So that's why I'm here. Because this is what he does. I cut people open, he talks to them before/during/after.

"Do you . . . want to sit down?" he asked tentatively, motioning toward a chair.

"I think I'd rather stand,"

"Well . . . that's fine . . . what can I do for you, my son?" he folded his hands quietly in his lap.

"Uh," I said. Eloquent, I think to myself, great, this was a terrific idea. I don't know why I had. For comfort? How could he comfort me? I wasn't religious. In fact in his book people like me had a one way ticket to hell.

"I just thought . . . we could talk," I said, hands in my pockets, "You know, just talk," I cleared my throat uncomfortably.

"Well, I'm a very good listener," he responded evenly.

I watched him for a moment, swallowing back a bad taste in my throat, "This is just between us, right? You can't tell anyone,"

"That's correct,"

I breathed a sigh of relief, my heart pounding. I paced a few steps back and forth. Stop, I told myself, forcing my feet to a halt.

"Perhaps if you just told me the problem and go from there," he suggested.

"Right," I responded, "Go from there," I nodded, "Problem, um . . . I know you probably won't understand this—and this isn't a confession. I don't believe in that –this is more for advice, you know," I clapped my hands together anxiously. The Father was sitting under his desk lamp, the light falling around him in a way that for a moment it looked almost heavenly. How did he do that?

I shrugged, feet not staying still on the dusty ground, "I figured in the area of distinguishing between right and wrong you've got the clearer picture,"

"Well," he said, a reassuring smile lighting his face, "I can at least have an objective opinion. Though, if I can't offer absolution, I'd be happy to at least offer guidance," his eyes peered at me over the rim of his glasses, "If that would help,"

"Good," I said, smiling widely, feeling behind me for the door, a nervous laugh making it past my lips, "Well, we're at an understanding then," I turned, opening the door.

"Hawkeye!" Father Mulcahy called. I stopped, "If you can't talk about whatever it is, perhaps it'd be easier to just start talking, about whatever," he pushed his glasses back up his nose, shifting in his chair to sit forward. I stood by the door, not moving. He continued talking in his usual calm voice, "Private Willis was a fine boy . . . I just finished writing his parents. He had a letter in his uniform—though I thought they needed more of an explanation . . . he was BJ's patient, was he not?"

"Yeah," I answered tentatively, taking a few steps into the tent, "He's pretty torn up about it,"

"A gentle soul, BJ, a gentle soul indeed," Father Mulcahy lowered his eyes in thought, shaking his head slowly, "It's not in his nature to let things go—he's a man of deep feeling," he looked up with a slow sigh, "And there are so few happy feelings here . . . and the ones that are, you have to search quite hard for to find,"

"That's the thing," I said, "There's nothing I can do short of writing fan mail to the peace delegates or offering to take out all of China's tonsils for free as long as they agree to call the whole thing off," I shrugged helplessly, meeting Mulcahy's eyes pleadingly, "I mean, there's only so many times I can say, 'everything's going to be okay' before I can't say it anymore," I took the chair opposite of him, "I didn't even believe myself the first time,"

"You're underestimating the power of words, my son," the Father said steadily, "Perhaps all BJ needs are a few comforting words from a friend. It's all any of us can hope for at times," he paused in thought, "Look at what I do—words are the only tools I have to use . . . sometimes I'm afraid it's not enough . . . sometimes I know it's not enough," he looked back at me, somehow his gentle face set and resolute, "But if we can't find hope in our situations we must find hope in each other,"

"Father, it's more than that," I said, "Because words aren't enough . . . they weren't enough," I looked down, closing my eyes, "And now I've just made things worse for him . . .," I looked up, eyes focused dully on the khaki walls of the makeshift chapel, "A lot worse,"

"How so?" Father Mulcahy asked.

When I focused my eyes on him I saw he was just listening quietly. But I'm too much of a coward to maintain eye contact, "He loves his wife," I said, "He loves her," I pressed my lips together, then wiped a hand across my nose, "More than anything. He has a daughter . . . he has this wonderful life . . . " my chest ached, "And he misses them . . . he misses her," I realized my throat's tight and it seems like I almost can't breathe, "He loves her," I kept my eyes away from the Father, "And . . . that means I'm the guy trying to break apart a beautiful family. I'm the jerk,"

"He cares about you," Father Mulcahy said earnestly, "I know he does,"

"Caring is one thing, Father . . . but we crossed a line . . . and I don't know what to do,"

"Crossed a line?" he asked carefully, "Which line?"

" _That_ line," I said, somewhat sharply.

For a moment Mulcahy's eyes remained unchanged then it seemed to dawn on him, his blue eyes blinking rapidly behind the lenses of his glasses. He readjusted the frames, clearing his throat, "I see," he looked down at the book in his lap, shrugging his shoulders after a few seconds, "Did you mean to do it?"

Did I mean to? What was he asking? Did I do this on purpose? Like I really wanted everything to be a complete and total mess. _No, he's a priest_ , I assured myself, _he's just trying to make you think of right and wrong, good and bad. Because if I didn't_ mean _to do it than that's okay?_

But _I'd_ told BJ about Arthur. _I'd_ kissed him—it was a conscious decision, I'd had control of myself. Besides the gin, which is a moot point after so long, it was just me. Plus, a little gin isn't an excuse. Not for this. Jesus, I'd spent a lifetime building up a resistance, I knew how to handle it, I know which door I kept it behind; what the hell's wrong with me.

My mind flashes back to Beej's rough, desperate lips, the way he fell into me, the feel of his hard body against mine, and how far it could have gone, the lack of release; the memory fills me with sick warmth and confusion. I hadn't anticipated him reacting that way, I hadn't counted on the rush, the connection I had reserved solely for my daydreams. And most of all, the desire I felt from him. For me. But regardless. I'd made the first move.

"Yeah," I said, drawing a slow breath, "Yeah . . . I did,"

Silence.

"And now things are different," I continued, "Because of me," my hands balled into fists on my knees, "I don't know what to do and I couldn't—" stopped, bit back anger, a sick feeling crawling over me, "This wouldn't have happened if I'd just, left him alone, I mean, what am I, some sort of harbinger of confusion and anguish? I didn't ask for this. I didn't choose to be this way. I wish I wasn't. I wish to God I wasn't," I looked up, shaking my head, feeling like I'd said too much, and I probably did, "If you'd let him know I'd appreciate it," I said, forcing my voice back to normal, doing everything I can possibly do to shut it all away, keep myself from falling apart, no matter how much I wanted to, returning to the glib, cocky cardboard cut-out of a person I usually am, "So," I shrugged, sitting up and crossing an ankle over my knee, "Ten hail Marys? Five Our Fathers?"

Mulcahy shook off the deflection. Hell, I might've underestimated him. He knew his way around a confession, or whatever this was. Or maybe it was the total terror on my face that gave me away. I felt transparent, like Father Mulcahy could see right through me. He must know that I didn't hide being gay to hurt anyone. I had to. I had to protect myself. It's not like the lying was easy. It was never easy.

"No, neither," Father Mulcahy said tensely, then raised both of his pale eyebrows, "This may surprise you, Hawkeye but you're not the first solider to come to me with this . . . problem," I must have looked shocked. "Really," he continued, "A lot of boys, or I should say a few, at least, I'm not really sure, find out many things about themselves over here . . ." he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Perhaps the close relationships they form with fellow soldiers precipitate it . . . or maybe—"

"Father," I interrupted impatiently.

He cleared this throat, straightening his glasses. He paused, like he was collecting himself, then took a deep breathe, "Normally," he said, eyes downcast, "I'd tell you that there's nothing wrong with you, which I do believe, Hawkeye, I really do," his eyes drifted sideways in thought, "It may not be the most popular opinion in religious circles but I do believe that God doesn't make mistakes, and you, the . . . way you are, is part of that plan, "But . . ." he sighed, "This is different. You're not being moved to Seoul or Tokyo, you're staying here," he paused in emphasis, "And it's not easy to keep a secret here,"

"As a lover of gossip myself, I know what you mean," I laced my fingers together, biting at my lower lip. I stared at my boots in the dirt, then looked up to meet the Father's eyes, "What do I do?"

He was quiet for a moment, "This is not entirely a right or wrong situation," he started, "While it is wrong to . . . consort with a married man, it is not wrong to feel love for one," he paused on this point and met my eyes with a calm certainty that made me feel like my heart was cracking open.

"It feels wrong," I said, my voice breaking.

"I'm sure it does,"

"Like I was _built_ wrong, like something is," I put a hand to my chest, and patted my sternum, "Faulty, inside."

"Trust in God, Hawkeye," he said and was patient as I rolled my eyes, "Trust that you are okay. Just the way you are," I couldn't say anything past the tightness in my throat. I could hear the crickets chirping outside, and the flicker of the candle burning on Mulcahy's nightstand. Maybe I hadn't realized how much I'd need to hear something like that. He put a hand on my knee, "And I wish I didn't have to warn you, Hawkeye, but I do. It's not safe. For either of you. There will be consequences."

"I guess that means I'll never get what I really want . . . or what I really need," I looked up to gauge his response, "How is that fair, Father?"

"It isn't," he said.

"Yeh," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat, "I'll . . . figure it out," though my voice wasn't at all convincing. He'd mentioned just what I didn't want to think about. Exposure. "Danger, loss of a brilliant reputation, not to mention my career in the Army, and at least ruining one happy marriage—yeah, sounds like a problem," I sighed for affect, then stood up and moved to the door, "Thanks, Father,"

I didn't give him time to respond. I got out of his tent, taking a deep breath of fresh air, having the same feeling I used to get when I was dragged to church as a kid. Incense so thick you could barely breath, forced to wear uncomfortable church clothes, unable to say a word just so the priest can keep being boring uninterrupted. After Mom died Dad and I stopped going to church though. Can't say I miss it.

A blast of cold wind made me wrap my arms around myself, hastening to get back to the Swamp, but not before running right into Beej.

"Beej,"

"Hawk,"

"Hi,"

"Hi,"

"Were you coming from Father Mulcahy's tent?"

"Sure looked like it,"

"You never talk to Father Mulcahy," he said certainly, then paused, narrowing his eyes, talking a half step closer, exclaiming in a loud whisper, "Wait—you told him?!"

"Are you really so paranoid?" I responded, wrapping my collar tighter around my neck, "I don't particularly like the idea of outing myself to the whole camp," I started walking, "And you know what a talker Mulcahy is,"

He followed me, "I can be paranoid about this," he said defensively, he caught the door of the Swamp as I went inside, "So, if you didn't tell him, what _did_ you talk about?"

I sighed, lying down on my bed, feeling exhausted. All those hours in surgery, then to top it off I get my soul kicked around by outdated religious dogma, all in time for a horrible dinner. I closed my eyes against a pounding headache, throwing an arm over my eyes, "I told him,"

"What?!"

"He's a priest, BJ, he can't tell anyone, don't worry about it,"

"But he _knows_ ,"

"Beej, it's not like we have to sit around waiting for the other boot to drop, both boots have already dropped!"

"But you told him!"

"I think we already went over this,"

"Hawk, this—that—whatever happened—it's really—," he stopped stammering when he saw the confused look on my face, closing his eyes to concentrate on what he was saying, raising one hand to signal each word, "I've never lived anywhere but California,"

Again, a confused look.

"I never saw a real pine tree until I went to Christmas at Peg's parent's house in Washington,"

I waited for him to keep talking. I was worried anything I'd say would make him run away. Best solution in these situations is to just keep my mouth shut.

"I'd only seen pictures," he said. He moved to sit in the chair by the still, looking over at me intermittently. He sighed, letting his head fall back on the chair, "This is so much bigger than a pine tree,"

Frank suddenly came through the door, not giving me a chance to ask BJ what he meant.

We both turned, raising our hands in greeting.

"Hi, Frank," I said.

"How's it going?" Beej asked.

"You guys are hopeless," Frank scowled, glowering at us before all but clasping on his bed with a dramatic sigh.

"Something wrong, Frank?" I asked, absolutely uninterested. Beej gave me a why-the-hell-did-you-ask-him look and retreated to his cot.

"It's classified," Frank responded snidely, sharply tugging out the laces of his boots.

"Classified? Like when you started an investigation into where all our condiments were going,"

"On our food, turns out," Beej commented from his cot.

"Or tornado-proofing the tents,"

"Secret spy dogs,"

" _No_ , this was _very_ important," he shouted, anger flashing in his beady eyes, "I was _trying_ to talk to Potter about the shower situation,"

Beej and I shared a look.

"The showers get overly slippery," Frank explained smugly, sitting back up after lining his boots up at perfect angles by his footlocker, "I was _going_ to ask him about the possible examination and subsequent refit of the showers safety parameters,"

"You really take your life in your hands," Beej said.

"A bar of soap fell on the floor last time and I thought I was done for,"

"You guys! This is serious!" he screwed his mouth into a displeased line, "What I mean is, it would be prudent, as an efficient unit to have safety ropes in the showers,"

I couldn't help laughing, "A safety rope?" I repeated as Beej laughed in the background.

"That's right," Frank said, glancing over in Beej's direction, dejected, "That way if someone slips they have something to hold on to,"

"That sounds—"

"Brilliant," Beej finished.

"Well it would've been if I had actually gotten in to _see_ Potter," he took a breath that puffed up his chest, a glare settling over his pale brow, "But _no_ , Father Mulcahy gets to go first," he stood up, unbuttoning his shirt with a shake of his head, "I was there first but he insisted on talking to Potter right away. Something about someone in camp, or something," he finished vaguely. I heard Beej stop laughing. The smile falls from my face slowly, "I mean, what could have been so important?"

"Safety ropes?" I offered.

Frank glared at me, weariness showing in his face, "I have the right to make suggestions," he said. Without saying anything else Frank lapsed into silence. He was good at ignoring us. He could block everything else out. Like his mind was a place he could retreat to and close the door behind him. He must have learned how to do it somewhere along the lines. Maybe something made him have to. Unfortunately, Frank would never accept any sympathy from me. Even if I meant it.

I leaned back on my cot, enough to see Beej sitting cross legged, blankets over his feet. He looked worried. Very worried. _But he insisted on talking to Potter first_ , Frank had said. About what? More importantly, why did he want to talk to him _now_ — _right_ after talking to me? I would have liked to ask Frank more about it. There had to be some way I could find out what Mulcahy was talking to Potter about. Would he tell Potter about me?

The wind howled outside our tent. Beej had lain down, and after a few more minutes Frank turned off his light. I knew Beej was tired enough to just fall asleep. But me? I needed to figure out what was going on. After about ten minutes, I swung my legs over the side of my bed, trying to be quiet. Maybe I could get close enough to hear. Maybe I could talk with Radar. I got up, looking back once at Beej lying under his blankets. I stood a moment at the door of the Swamp, one hand on the door, gazing at him silently.

I didn't care what happened to me. Just as long as he wasn't hurt by it. I lowered my eyes finally and pushed out the door, Beej's sleeping face imprinted in my mind, somehow giving me strength. As I walked across the compound, the night sky stretching out above me, my mind inescapably wandered from me protecting Beej, to something like a life with him after the army, living together, being together. I knew it would never happen. But I love him.

I hoped they were still in there. And if not, Radar could help. It was a brilliant plan. It was a terrible plan. But it was all I had.


End file.
